


Granite

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Dwalin, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a shame Thorin should marry a much softer woman, because he’s always known just how to talk to Dwalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Granite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarwobble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarwobble/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Dwalin loves Thorin, but since she's not soft and sweet like the Dwarf princesses his parents keep pushing him at she's convinced herself that nothing could ever come of it. Thorin loves Dwalin, but since she never seemed to take notice of him when he smoldered at her as majestically as he knows how he's convinced himself that nothing could ever come of it. I'd love a happy ending, especially if it turns out Thorin loves Dwaling precisely because she's big and strong” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22136043#t22136043).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Dwalin’s never been particularly fond of balls. 

She likes a good celebration enough as the next dwarf. A chance to drink, to laugh, to sing, is always welcome, especially after a long, grueling battle like the one so recently held outside the gates of Erebor. But balls come with so many extra things, and the dancing’s more rigid than she’d like. The politics more noticeable. It isn’t just about eating and having fun, it’s about _courting_ , and Dwalin’s never been any good at that. She’s better on the battlefield. Her hands are more comfortable around the handle of an axe than in a man’s. 

She’s probably the only woman at the party not wearing a dress, too. Many of the men have even opted for longer robes, showing off all their riches for the occasion, but Dwalin’s always preferred trousers. She likes to feel like she can _run_ , take off any time the need arise. Perhaps it isn’t so likely at a party, but she does employ the extra speed in escaping the mottled dance-floor. She slips around the tables of food, ducking and avoiding friends and other members of the quest—always difficult, given her enormous stature—until she’s snuck her way to one of the balconies, cut out of the rock: both a battle-ready parapet and a pleasing decoration. For all the ruins the dragon left, Erebor is as beautiful as Dwalin remembers it. She slips out into the night, the stars better company than the candle light inside. 

It isn’t just the ball itself. The dancing, the insipid chatter, the stuffy atmosphere. It’s _Thorin_. Thorin makes everything more complicated.

Even with only a passing thought of him, Dwalin has to tighten her fists around the stone railing and force herself not to turn and seek him out in the crowd. He’s always handsome, but tonight, he’s more irresistible than usual, in his golden crown and his rich robes, those of a _king_. He looks happy again, young and regal, like the man she knew so long ago before the dragon took them. She had to avoid him at balls back then, too. His parents preferred her absence. They had other women to shove at him: pretty, delicate things, almost elf-like in their charm, eager to sit at home and coddle their handsome prince. The relations Dáin’s brought to offer their new king are little better. 

A raven passes down below the balcony, and she follows the path of its black feathers through the night air. Hopefully it won’t tell anyone of her sulking. She had a nice reprieve, at least, for a time. There were many others on the quest, but there were times it seemed like _just the two of them,_ off in a corner to practice or whisper harried plans. There were no reminders of the delicate creatures Thorin will one day marry. There was no need to fret over her own inadequacies or burn with jealousy.

Though it was also painful, almost excruciating, to be so close to him, to lie next to him at night and bathe by him in the rivers, to see him night and day and know that nothing could ever come of it. She’s always wanted him, for as long as she can remember, but fighting alongside him, watching his bravery on this quest, only fanned those flames. She’ll never have another, now. Hulking and ugly though she is, women dwarves are rare enough that she could still have a husband if she wanted, but none will be Thorin, and Dwalin will never settle for a man that couldn’t knock her on her ass with a sword. 

She’s not princess material. She’s not ball material. She may as well go back to her room—she came, she showed her support for the king, but he has the rest of the company and doesn’t need her anymore. She turns to head for the noise of the crowd inside, but she doesn’t quite make it through the archway before she sees him. Thorin grins at her through the smattering of dwarves all around him, and Dwalin stops, held still by his gaze. Clapping others on shoulders to make his leave, Thorin heads towards her, bee-lining around the tables, and Dwalin slinks further outside again, like hiding in the darkness.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one that needed fresh air,” he mutters as he steps beside her, flashing her a smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. His meaty hands slip around the railing, roughly as big and calloused as hers, but with more grace. She can see the weariness in him, and she understands. He’s a great king, but they’re both better suited for a fight than politics. 

She tries to make light of it and grumbles, “You need a moment to figure out which of your many, many options you want to marry?” For once, her natural gruffness comes in handy—she always sounds a _little_ bitter, and it hides the tinge of jealousy.

Thorin snorts. To her surprise, he waves one hand, grunting, “One of those flimsy flowers? I thought Dáin knew me better than that.”

Dwalin’s brow knits together. She doesn’t quite understand, but Thorin doesn’t look at her to see it. He’s staring out across his kingdom, down the long river and rolling hills, still desolate from the time of Smaug, though the vale of night doesn’t let them see far. Steadying her voice, she asks, “You don’t want a pretty woman?”

Thorin glances at her. His hand lifts to stroke through his beard—a smattering of thick-growing stubble, mostly brown-black with tiny threads of silver. Dwalin’s longed to run her fingers through it too many times—he has such beautiful hair, such well-carved features. Slowly, as though careful with his words, Thorin answers, “I’m a warrior. I could never be with someone so... delicate.” Almost as an afterthought, he chuckles, “Some of those in there are almost _Elven_ , and you know well enough how I feel about those.”

She does. But she didn’t think that made trim, elegant women off the table for him. But: “They aren’t all like that...”

Thorin shakes his head, like it doesn’t matter. He opens his mouth, closes it, then admits, “There is no one Dáin could bring me that I would have. My heart belongs to another, anyway, though I can never have her.”

Dwalin’s chest instantly constricts. She feels vaguely sick, like she’s swallowed a rock, or her muscles are spasming and don’t want to keep her standing anymore. He’s never said anything about it until now, though they never speak of that sort of thing. She’d still assumed he would come to her with such ‘secrets,’ and it hurts to think he didn’t put that trust in her. It hurts even more to picture him under another dwarf. When she takes too long to answer, he looks aside at her, and she forces herself to grit out, “Someone you found in the Blue Mountains? You can send for her.”

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head again. He lets out a deep sigh before going on. “Just someone who my charm’s never worked on.” His lips curve up at the side as his eyes slip away: a knowing, self-aware half-smirk. “I’ve smoldered at her as majestically as I know how, to no avail.”

It’s Dwalin’s turn to snort, and not just at his playful wording. “I can’t imagine that. You’re the King Under the Mountain, not to mention the most handsome dwarf Middle Earth’s ever seen.” She can feel her cheeks heating immediately after she’s said it. He _is_ handsome, but she didn’t mean to admit she thinks that. Staring straight down the mountainside, she rushes on, trying to cover it, “You’re brave, strong—any woman would be lucky to have you. Any woman would _love_ to have you.”

The usual confidence isn’t in Thorin voice when he bitterly grumbles, “Apparently not everyone.”

It’s strange for him to be like this. It’s strange to see him looking away, lost in thought, not over his broken home and plundered treasures but over something so simple as love. Not for the first time, she feels disappointed in herself for wanting to hold him back with her, instead of just wanting her friend to be happy. She does want that. Even without her. 

She puts her hand over his on the railing, feels his warmth and his rough skin and the scratch of course hair at his wrist. “I’m not just saying this because I’m your best friend,” she starts, voice serious, grave as always. “I genuinely believe that no one could turn you away. You’re a _king_ , Thorin, _the_ king of the greatest Dwarven city there is. And you _won_ it yourself. You earned it. You were courageous and true and so strong. You’re powerful in both stature and nature, handsome and rugged and intelligent. Wise, kind-hearted. You’re everything young dwarves strive to be. You’re... you’re _perfect_...” she trails off lamely, running out of words, but squeezing his hand and looking into his face, encouraging, trying to bolster him back up. “Thorin...”

“I would kiss you right now,” he growls, “if any of that were true, and even you couldn’t resist me.”

Numbly, Dwain grunts, “What?”

“I have done everything I can to win your heart,” Thorin practically snarls, turning to her. He was always standing close, but he presses into her so much that her beard flattens against his chin, his musky smelling filling her breath; she can taste him in the air. “I have always been a good friend to you,” Thorin rumbles, fierce, “and I will ask no more of you if you wish no more, but I would have more if your words were true, and you thought all those things yourself. Dáin would have me marry some simpering maiden, but I would have a warrior of equal skill, strength, fire. I would have _you_.” With a single, hollow laugh, Thorin turns again, glaring aside, and ending hotly, “But I am not that kind of king.”

“You’re joking.”

That jerks Thorin’s head back to her, squinting. Dwalin’s never been the best at humour, though she occasionally pokes fun at others in their company here and there. She feels like her ears are ringing, and either she heard wrong, or this is some sick joke Nori or maybe Bofur put him up to. 

Slowly, Thorin’s eyes widen, and he murmurs, “You really didn’t know... did you?”

“I know that you’re supposed to be with some... some...” She can’t even say it. There’s nothing _wrong_ with the women inside the ball, but she wants Thorin for _herself_ , and she mumbles thickly, “not some huge, ugly, lumbering troll of a—”

His fingers twist in her beard. He jerks her forward too quickly—he was always that one half-step faster—and their mouths slam together, so hard that Dwalin feels a crick in her nose, but it doesn’t matter—her hands fly to his chest. Any other man, she would send sprawling on their ass, but Thorin she _grabs_ , knotting in the fabric so tightly that she might be digging into flesh, and she pulls him flush against her. He’s hard, hot, cushioned by the fabric but suddenly bearing into her, turning to flatten her into the stone railing—her spine has to mold along it. His tongue pushes into her mouth, insistent, and she more _moans_ than intentionally opens for her king. His tongue slips along her teeth, swirling around her own tongue, tugging it, his teeth scraping her lips. The pull on her chin is almost painful, but so worth it—she manages to run her hands up his broad chest, across his toned shoulders, along his throat, fingers curling around his stubble, knuckles tracing his beard, and then she’s in his hair, threading back through it. Their mustaches scratch whenever they close their mouths to reopen, shifting slightly, and she has the horrible urge to thrust one hand down and grab his ass, maybe his crotch—why couldn’t he have done this on the journey here, so they could’ve fucked like animals on the forest floor without a whole audience behind them? She puffs up her chest, pressing her breasts flat against him, wanting him to _grab_ them, squeeze them—she wants to push him down and cut off his clothes with his own sword—and when he pulls away the first time, she tugs him back by the hair, crushing their mouths together again. He has to shove her _hard_ to get away.

She’s breathless and ravenous. She looks at him, incoherent and lust-wrecked. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth; it was a wet kiss, but she doesn’t bother to do the same. She can still taste him. “You’re gorgeous,” he hisses, “and I’d fuck you right here if I could. I would’ve had you in the gold the minute we stepped into Erebor if I knew that’s what you thought. No, sooner than that—on the quest—or right in Bilbo’s house on his precious wood floor.”

Dwalin’s whole body is hot. _This_ is what she wanted. Ferocious, intoxicating. Wild. She grunts, “I wanted to fuck you right over the bank in the Carrock and lick honey off your chest.” 

Thorin’s eyes _burn_. He lunges at her, hands flying back into her tunic and pulling her tight, this kiss even more merciless than the last, and Dwalin lets her hands roam everywhere; she forgets the ball and cups his skull and ass, squeezing one firm cheek through his too-thick robes and shoving her crotch against his—she can feel the bulge forming there—and to think she’d once thought of cutting her beard and trying to slim down for him. They wasted so many years. 

They have so many more ahead. This time when they part, Thorin has to hold her back, growling against her, “My chambers. _Now._ ”

“The party,” Dwalin mutters, even though she’d much rather get plowed into Thorin’s mattress than anything the ball could offer.

“I’m the king,” he hisses, “and I will fuck my future queen when I choose.”

Dwalin’s wet. It takes every bit of strength she has not to shove him down to the floor. She takes his hand instead, clutching it in a bruising grip that would break a lesser dwarf’s bones. Thorin turns, marching straight for the ball. 

He thrusts inside, ignoring all of Dáin’s offers that come flocking back to him, and just before they leave the hall, they pass Balin. He chuckles fondly, “About time,” as they hurry by, and Dwalin starts pushing Thorin faster, half out of embarrassment, and half to express her love before she explodes. 

It isn’t until much later that she realizes she’ll really be _queen_ , and he dizzily tells her through the bite-filled afterglow, “I’ve always _loved_ you.”


End file.
